Strike Eagle (31 page)

Chapter 22

Friday, 22 June

Tarlac

As they moved through the clearing, Bruce kept in a crouch. His M-16 was strapped to his shoulder. He fanned his service revolver back and forth as he jogged, to cover the area before him.

Pompano moved faster in the clear than he did in the jungle. The house was about a quarter mile from the jungle, right smack in the center of the clearing. A quarter mile—how many times had Bruce run that distance? He would have run ten times that in a single football game.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce spotted someone moving. He kept the Huk in his peripheral vision: His night vision best discerned objects when viewed from the side.

Through the rain and darkness the person appeared to be moving away from them. Bruce swung his pistol around, back and forth, as he covered their path.

Pompano slowed. He held a hand down, then motioned quickly to the left. They peeled off from their straight-in approach and swung wide to come around to the side.

The building was long in the back and airy. The windows were open, but rain was kept from coming in by a large overhang that encircled the perimeter of the house. Strong smells of food cooking caught Bruce’s attention and made his stomach grumble.

Laughter mixed with faint shrill cries came from the house. Pompano slowed as he heard the noise.
Yolanda!
Bruce caught up to Pompano and silently urged him on. As he passed the old man Bruce could sense Pompano shaking, quivering with what had to be rage for his daughter’s safety.

They reached the corner of the house. No sound came out of the window in front of them. Bruce and Pompano stopped to catch their breath.

Bruce breathed through his nose, trying to keep the huffing inaudible. He gritted his teeth to keep the pain out of his mind.

No one heard them. Or at least, no one indicated that they did.

The house sat on concrete blocks. The space underneath the house was too cramped for anyone other than a child to crawl through. After a quick glance, Bruce backed up against the house, certain that no one was staked out underneath.

Pompano drew up to him. “Yolanda is being held at the other end of the house. Your vice president is probably in the bedroom at this end.”

Bruce nodded. He could still hear the screaming, the moans.

Pompano grasped the rifle barrel tightly. “I can not allow this to happen to her.”

Bruce leaned over to Pompano. The motion caused him to yelp in pain. He nearly fell, but straightened himself against the house’s wooden siding. Bruce forced a whisper. “We’ll have to split up, try and break into the house at the same time. Can you take her to the south side of the clearing?”

Pompano nodded. A low rumble of thunder rolled through the clearing. Pompano pulled his revolver from the holster and nodded to the opposite end of the building. A sob came through the rain. “I cannot allow this to continue.” He crouched down and started out.

Bruce breathed deeply. He turned toward the house.

Pompano was already a quarter of the way to Yolanda.

The overhang sheltered Bruce from the rain. He limped to the nearest window. No one was around. He couldn’t see Pompano, and just prayed that the old man would succeed.

Bruce pushed up on his tiptoes. The effort almost bowled him over, but he managed a quick look inside the room.

A body was sprawled over a bed. It was tied to the bedposts, rope wrapped around the person’s arms and feet. It looked like the person had been hog-tied.

A guard sat back in a chair, across the room from the vice president. His head nodded, then jerked back up.

Bruce wet his lips. He crouched in the mud and patted his survival vest. He pulled out the small walkie-talkie and turned the gain and volume to low. He whispered directly into the small microphone, “Blackcave, Assassin,” then held the speaker to his ear.

Ten seconds passed. It seemed like ten hours to Bruce.

“Assassin, Blackcave. Go.”

“I’ve found Lonestar, but we’ve got trouble. Looks like we’re not going to make the jungle.”

“Assassin, can you talk?”

Bruce looked hurriedly around. “Negative.”

“Assassin, give us an assessment.”

“Blackcave, scrub the Fulton plan. Get a chopper at the south side of the clearing ASAP. We’re not, repeat
not
going to have time to get to the recovery packet. You’re going to have to pull the vice president out of here on a chopper—we’ll duck into the jungle and wait until Maddog covers us before pickup.”

A minute and a half passed. Bruce wondered if he should call up again, but a voice came over the speaker. Bruce held the instrument to his ear. “Give us the word, Assassin. The Black Hawk will be there two minutes after you holler.”

“Rog.”

He had started to collapse the walkie-talkie when he heard water sloshing.

Bruce fell back against the side of the house. A guard carrying a rifle, the barrel pointing down at the ground, rounded the corner of the house. He drew deeply on a cigarette, threw it out into the water, and turned toward Bruce.

“Fox One, Mother Hen. Your quarry is in sight, ready for pickup. Stand by for a two-minute bolt.” The MC-130’s message was short and curt.

Captain Richard Head clicked his mike twice. “Rog.” He turned to Gould, who had already started running through the checklist. “Let’s crank it.”

Clark AB

“General, they’ve made their move.”

Simone growled into the microphone. “I know.”

“Plan B: Do you want them to launch?” Simone thought it over. Helicopters filled with Navy SEALs waited to fly in for the assault. He didn’t want to send in anyone and risk Adleman’s life, not if Bruce could pull it off.

But he needed the option open.…

“Launch, but have them orbit five miles away. We’ll land them if they’re needed.”

Tarlac

Bruce lifted his pistol up instinctively. His fingers had squeezed off two rounds before he stopped. His hand kicked back with each shot.

The silencer surprised him. He had expected not to hear anything, but the muffled sound seemed to ricochet around the building and out into the clearing.

The man looked startled when hit; he fell back. Bruce waited for an instant, wondering if the man was faking it. He half expected the guard to get up and start firing, or at least yelling. He crouched by the window, anticipating some reaction from the guard inside.

Nothing happened.

It all seemed too easy.

Bruce turned to the window and put his hand up to the screen. The guard had started to snore. Bruce pushed, moving the protective mesh back into the room.

The Filipino suddenly opened his eyes. He spotted Bruce and scrambled for his rifle.…

Bruce whipped his pistol over the windowsill and slammed off three shots. The guard slumped back against the chair, then fell to the floor.

Bruce pulled up and rotated his right leg inside the house. He tried to move as fast as he could. He hoped the rain had masked the sound of the guard’s fall.

Bruce scanned the room as he lowered himself down to the wooden floor. A chest of drawers, a low table, a mirror, and the bed decorated the Spartan room. Outside the door he could hear muffled talking.

Adleman lay on his back, his arms roped together and tied to the top of the bed. Bruce unsheathed a surgical blade and sliced through the ropes. Adleman stirred. He moaned, then blinked.

Bruce lunged over and put a hand on the vice president’s mouth. Bruce held a finger up to his lips, indicating silence. Adleman’s eyes widened, then he nodded.

Bruce sliced the ropes by Adleman’s feet, then pulled his legs around. Bruce helped him to his feet.

“Who … are you?”

“Later.”

Adleman put an arm around Bruce’s shoulder causing him to lose his balance and nearly trip over the dead guard.

The vice president spoke with difficulty. “Are you … all right?”

Bruce waved him toward the window. “Sprained ankle.”

Adleman hobbled to the window. He rubbed his hands together. Bruce noticed they were heavily bandaged, but didn’t say anything. Adleman peeked out. “It’s clear.”

The sounds in the back bedroom had quieted. Cervante didn’t notice the silence for some time.

He sauntered to the back. When he reached the door to the bedroom, he could not open it. He jiggled the door knob. “Open it—you cannot shock me!”

He chuckled to himself. The men had enthusiastically participated in the gang rape, venting their frustrations—it was not a woman Cervante had brought them, it was a
toy.
Something to be used, thrown away.

Cervante jiggled the doorknob harder. “It is over. Come out now.”

Still nothing.

Cervante frowned. He placed a shoulder up against the door and pushed. When it did not give, he stepped back and kicked at the doorknob. Another kick shattered the wood; the door swung open.

Two Huks lay across the bed, bullet holes in their heads. Cervante’s eyes widened. “The vice president!” He yelled at the top of his voice. “The vice president! Quickly!” And ran from the room.

Shouting erupted from the outer room. The sound of feet, thundering down the hall, grew louder and louder.

Bruce reacted immediately. He pushed Adleman out the window. Adleman yelped, then disappeared from sight, head-first. Bruce heard a muffled “Ooof” as the vice president hit the ground.

Bruce pulled out his radio and punched the on switch. He whipped the M-16 off from around his back as he spoke. “Mother hen—Mayday, Mayday! Pull us out!”

He had the wits about him to stuff the walkie-talkie into his pocket. Backing toward the window, he kept the M-16 aimed at the door. He reached out with his hand and found the window sill. He managed to get his foot up to the sill when the door splintered open from someone kicking.

Bruce let go with a burst from the M-16. There was a scream, then the kicking stopped.

More yelling. Feet running and people jabbering. Bruce’s nostrils filled with acrid smoke from the automatic weapon.

A round of bullets zinged into the room as Bruce fell over backward. He tried to keep from landing on his ankle and almost hit his head, but he rolled and flew out into the mud.

Adleman sat up against the house. Bruce waved and shouted. “Come on!”

Adleman winced in pain. “I think my leg is broken.”

Bruce crawled forward and grabbed at the vice president. He grit his teeth and stood, ignoring the blinding pain that shot up from his ankle.

“Come
on!
Bruce jerked Adleman up and started dragging him; they were in the rain, water covering them. “Help me, you son of a bitch!”

A volley of shots peppered the area. A
zing
flew past Bruce’s ear. He ducked and tried to drag Adleman faster. Bruce felt as if his leg would explode any moment—his ankle had to be broken.

Lights flickered through the rain and darkness, bouncing from the house as lanterns were taken outside. Bruce squinted through the downpour; he couldn’t see any sign of Yolanda or Pompano. All around came shouts and bullets, curses, the tart smell of gunpowder.

One of the Huks ran in front of Cervante and kicked the door at the opposite end of the house.
“Booto!”